At last they reached the top and they paused there for a moment, catching their breath. Hesseth took advantage of the break to wrap a blanket about Jenseny’s shoulders, shawl-style. It was meant more to conserve heat than to keep her dry; at this point, with all of them soaked to the skin, the latter would be a futile effort at best.
They moved on into the darkness, able to see no more than a yard or so ahead of them before the downpour cut their visibility short. The lamps were little more than sparks in a measureless blackness, about which they gathered like insects. The rain buffeted them in sheets, and more than once Jenseny needed a helping hand to keep going.
At last there were buildings. Small at first, but even those helped cut the wind somewhat. Damien’s whole body ached from the effort of fighting the wind. They skirted the lee side of long warehouses, wading in ankle-deep water that was as cold as ice. At one point Tarrant signaled for them to stop and Damien did so, shivering as he used the opportunity to readjust the straps of his backpack. It was a new one that he had purchased back in Esperanova, and was not yet broken in; its stiff, unyielding straps rubbed the wet cloth against his body where he least needed discomfort. At last he slipped one arm out of its strap and used the other to sling it more loosely, satchel-style, over his shoulder. Better.
“There.” Tarrant pointed into the darkness. Though he couldn’t see what the man was pointing to—didn’t even know what he was looking for, for that matter—Damien was hardly in a mood to argue. They began to move again, splashing their way through the impromptu rivers that coursed down the street, stumbling as an unseen pothole or unnoticed ridge confounded their balance. Once the girl went down hard on her hands and knees in the water, and Damien had to help her up. It was hard to be sure of anything in the dark, but he thought she was crying. He hesitated only an instant, then lifted her up in his arms and held her tightly against his chest. Her own weight was slight, but her waterlogged clothing added considerably to the burden. Damien was just having second thoughts about his decision when he felt a hand on his other shoulder. Tarrant. The tall man placed a hand on the strap of his pack and waited for him to release it. After a minute he did so, shrugging out of it awkwardly while he maintained his grip on the girl. Much to his surprise the Hunter took it up, clearly meaning to carry it for him. It was a gesture so generous, so utterly unlike him, that for a moment Damien could do no more than stand there gaping while the rain poured down on them all. At last a sharp jab from Hesseth got him moving again, and he shifted his grip on the girl so that he could carry her more easily. He thought, as he moved, that he saw the Hunter smile. Slightly, very slightly. Hard to be sure, in the rain.
They passed through a squalid residential district, where homeless figures crouched shivering in doorways and refused to meet their eyes. Taking them for demons, no doubt. Who else would be walking about on a night like this? They made their way south as quickly as they could, keeping to the lee side of buildings whenever they were able. Jenseny shook in Damien’s arms, but whether from tears or fear or simple cold he couldn’t begin to tell. There’d be time enough later to sort that out, when they found some sort of shelter.
Won’t do us any good to find a hotel, he thought grimly. Can’t afford to be noticed, and that would sure as hell do it. Besides, what manner of place would take in four strangers at this hour? He didn’t like to think that they would have to camp outdoors in this weather, but there didn’t seem to be much of an alternative. Unless Tarrant’s preternatural Sight could locate them a cave somewhere to serve as shelter. Or anything.
They followed the Hunter for what seemed like miles, until at last the man seemed to find what he was looking for. They had skirted what looked like the center of town, and were now far beyond the main clustering of houses and shops. Trees loomed high on either side of a muddy road, cutting the wind until it could almost be dealt with. Damien’s limbs ached from the cold and the exertion, but he kept on moving. And he kept on carrying the child as well, though her weight made walking twice as hard. There was no way she could have gone on.
At last Tarrant turned from the road, following a path that led deep into the woods. Too tired to question him, Damien simply followed. He could see Hesseth beside, wearily keeping the pace. The narrow path was overgrown, and drowned grass squelched beneath their feet as they walked. Once he almost tripped, but the Hunter’s chill grip steadied him. Hardly colder than his own skin, now. That was unnerving.
And then the path opened up to reveal a small clearing, inches deep in rainwater. In its center sat a primitive cabin, high enough on its log foundations that the groundwater hadn’t flooded it. Yet. Without hesitation Tarrant walked up to the front door and lowered his lamp so that he might make out its details. There was a heavy padlock on it which he studied for a moment, then held it in his hand and silently conjured power. Silver-blue light flickered in and about the lock. He gave it a moment to do its work, then pulled back, hard. The lock’s bar shattered like glass and fell in icy bits to his feet.
He kicked the door hard and it opened, granting access to a pitch-black space. As the lanterns were brought inside, Damien could make out details: rough walls, a coarsely-made table and chairs, two cots, a fireplace. Not much, but right now it looked like heaven. Despite his misgivings he moved inside, and lowered the girl gently to one of the cots. She collapsed on it trembling, her body limp as a rag doll.
He turned to find Tarrant setting their lanterns on the rough wooden mantel. Dust clouded up about the glass, stirred by his motion. Whoever owned this place, they hadn’t cleaned it for a good long time.
He took a moment to catch his breath, then said what had to be said. “This place belongs to someone.”
“Obviously.”
“They might come back—”
“They won’t. Not right away. I don’t know all the details, but my Working indicated that this place is only used in the summer. Which it isn’t quite, yet.”
He looked about, and couldn’t help but mutter, “Breaking and entering?”
“Would you rather camp outside?”
He looked at the small girl shivering on the cot, and over at Hesseth; the khrast-woman looked equally miserable. “No,” he said at last. “I guess not. We can pay for anything we use.”
A faint smile flitted across the Hunter’s face. “If that makes you more comfortable.”
It was Hesseth who made them a fire, digging through her pack to reach the one dry square inch where her matches were stored, tightly wrapped in layers of waxed paper. Bless her for it. Soon the cabin’s interior was glowing amber and orange from the flames, and though the heat of the fire was minimal at first Damien knew it would soon fill the small space.
Outside the wind whistled angrily; inside, the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the slow drip of water as it seeped down from their hair, their clothes, their possessions.
“You’ll need to get the girl dry,” Tarrant told them. “At her age children take sick easily. And she’s never been outside before, which means her immune system is mostly untested; best not to subject it to too much stress.”
He moved toward the door then, as if to leave.
“You’re going out?” Damien asked. Incredulous.
“It’ll be dawn soon.” He looked out the window, as if searching for a hint of sunlight. If there was any, Damien couldn’t make it out. “I need shelter, too, priest.”
He moved as if to grasp the door handle.
“Gerald. Please.” When he said nothing in response, Damien added gently, “Don’t be an ass.”
The pale eyes narrowed.
“There’s a trapdoor in the corner that must lead down to some kind of cellar. If that’s flooded, we can easily cover the one window.” He nodded toward the thick glass, to the rain and the wind that shrieked beyond. “There’s no need to go outside in that mess.”
The Hunter hesitated. Water dripped from the hem of his tunic.
“We’re all in this together,” Damien
said quietly. “Aren’t we?”
Something flickered in the depths of Tarrant’s eyes—some dark and secret emotion, that was gone too quickly for Damien to analyze it. When it was gone, the man’s accustomed mask was back in place: perfectly controlled, utterly unreadable.
Slowly, Tarrant took his hand from the handle. Slowly, after a moment more, he stepped away from the door.
“Yes,” he said softly. As if savoring the words. “We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”
Outside, the wind was still rising.
Thirty-five
Damen dreamed. Not in cohesive images which held true to some internal narrative, but chaotic fragments, layered one over the other with no sense of unity. Images of a dark and sterile land where the earth was black and the trees were white and the sky burned crimson and orange overhead. Images of running, of terrible thirst, of a paralysis that came upon him muscle by muscle, limb by limb, until he could do no more than lie helplessly on the ground, his every breath a struggle for survival. And then there was rakhene laughter. Always that: gales of rakhene laughter, as cruel and as bloodthirsty as any he had heard in Hesseth’s homeland. Sometimes there were crystals, too, glistening black columns like the citadel they had seen in Lema—the Master’s citadel, which they had destroyed—only now there were thousands of them, more than thousands, large ones and small ones and carved ones and broken ones ... some of the carved ones were in the shape of skulls, but instead of empty sockets they had vast, glaring eyes. Faceted eyes, insect-bright, that reflected the fiery skies in a thousand molten bits. No need to ask where that image came from; he would never forget that baleful glare as long as he lived.
Maybe torture will loosen his tongue, the crystal skull urged. Bug-eyes glistening. Certainly worth a try....
He awakened in a cold sweat, and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was. Then it all came back to him: the rain, the cold, the frightened child in his arms. His shoulders throbbed painfully as he levered himself to a sitting position and his feet felt cold and sore, but at least everything was in working order. After more than a decade on the road you learned to be grateful for that and ignore the rest.
Outside the storm was still raging, and the light coming in through the one window was so feeble that Tarrant probably could have stayed upstairs without danger. So much for traveling tonight, he thought grimly. Hesseth had nurtured a fire in the small fireplace and its golden flames dispelled some of the gloom inside, but there were limits to what a mere fire could accomplish. As he eased himself gingerly onto his feet, hoping they would support him, he could feel the weight of the storm outside pressing against the walls and roof of the tiny cabin, and it was as if the pressure made their dimensions shrink. Suddenly the room seemed very dank and close, and it took considerable effort on his part to resist its depressive power.
Hesseth’s voice broke into his reverie, a welcome distraction. “You up to breakfast?”
He grunted assent and took in the rest of the room. The small table had been set with bowls and spoons and a pot of something steaming that smelled excruciatingly good. Beside it sat Jenseny, who had evidently just finished eating; her empty bowl had been set to one side so that she could concentrate all her attention on the little metal puzzles Tarrant had provided for her. As Damien approached the table, Hesseth produced another bowl and a ladle and spooned out a hefty portion of the steaming concoction. Some kind of grain-based porridge, he guessed. He didn’t recognize the vegetables floating in it, nor did he care what they were. He’d have eaten swamp mud if it was hot enough.
The girl glanced up as he sat down opposite her, and cast him a fleeting, nervous smile. He tried to smile back, aware that between stubble and dried mud and rain-mussed hair he must look particularly gruesome. Hell, if she could face that in the morning, she could handle anything.
They let him eat in silence, Hesseth nursing a mug of some sweet juice she had heated over the fire. Like the grain and the vegetables it was not from their own stores but from among foodstuffs kept in the cabin. One more thing to pay for, Damien thought. Surely if they left a generous amount of money for the owner, he could manage not to feel guilty about all this. What man wouldn’t happily trade a few tins of cereal and a can or two of vegetables for a handful of coins? He’d leave enough to assure fair payment and then some. Let Tarrant scorn him if he liked. Fair was fair.
“I had a dream,” he said at last, pushing the twice-emptied bowl away from him. It seemed to him that his words hung heavy in the silence, and that the air cooled somewhat for having contained them. He pushed back his chair a bit so that it was closer to the fire; the heat on his back was reassuring.
“Bad one?” Hesseth asked.
“Yeah.” The child had stopped her play and was watching him now. For a brief moment he thought of sending her elsewhere (but where? It wasn’t like the cabin had another room), and then the total idiocy of that hit home. She had signed on to follow them into this sorcerous realm, knowing that they were facing death and worse. And even forgetting about that, look at where they had found her: among the Terata, sole witness to the true nature of that cursed tribe. And he, Damien, was going to protect her now by sending her away so she wouldn’t hear about his nightmare? He remembered how she had cringed in the streets of Esperanova, how the pain and the suffering that clung to the streets of that city had come nigh onto overwhelming her. She sees more horror in a walk down Main Street than most of us see in a lifetime ... and she’s still hanging in there, despite it. How many other children her age could manage that? She’s a lot tougher than she looks, and it’s time we gave her credit for it.
So he described his nightmare to both of them, both the images he’d seen and the emotions attending them. The latter was what was truly horrible about the experience: not the rakhene laughter, not the crystal skulls, not even the image of Calesta. It was his own feeling of utter helplessness as he lay upon that sterile plain, paralyzed by God alone knows what power.
Jenseny’s eyes were wide as he described the scenario, and her toys lay forgotten on the table before her. Though she didn’t interrupt Damien in any way, he could feel the tension building in her, and it didn’t surprise him when, after he finished, she was the first one to speak.
“The Black Lands,” she breathed. “Those are the Black Lands.”
Damien grimaced at the revelation; he would much have preferred to believe that his dream represented some symbolic vista, rather than an actual landscape. It was left for Hesseth to prompt the girl, “Tell us about the Black Lands.”
The tidal power must have been strong then, for before she could begin to speak an image took form before her, hovering over the center of the table. A glistening black surface, that reflected the moonlight in ripples and whorls much like the surface of the sea. The image had barely become clear when it disappeared, too quickly for Damien or Hesseth to study it.
“He said ... the Prince lives in the Black Lands.” Her brow was furrowed tightly as she struggled to remember what her father had told her, so very long ago. Who had ever thought that she’d need to recall it all? “He said the land there looks like the sea, or like a river, only it’s black and it’s frozen in place.” Again the image appeared before her, but this time only a flicker. She seemed not to notice it. “He said ... nothing grows there. He said it’s a desert. And it’s flat, so that the Prince can see everything.”
“No sneaking up on that bastard,” Damien muttered. Force of habit, assessing the enemy. The last thing he wanted to do this time around was go calling on the enemy face-to-face. Luck had been with them in Lema—not to mention forested mountains and a rakhene guide—but here, out on that open plain ... they wouldn’t stand a chance.
A man doesn’t get that lucky twice, he thought grimly.
“Go on,” Hesseth urged.
“He said ... the Prince lives in crystal. But not like a jewel, not like in his ring. He said that crystals can grow just like plants, and in the Black Lands there’s
a forest of them. That’s where he lives. That’s where he rules from.”
She looked up at him hopefully. Obviously she wasn’t all that sure that the information she was providing was what they wanted. “You’re doing fine,” Damien told her, and he took one of her hands in his own and squeezed it. “Go on.”
There was a flash of images in front of her: white trees, black earth, a strange knotted tube that turned inside out as they watched it. It took Damien a second to realize that the last was one of her puzzles.
“There’s the Wasting,” she told them. Her voice was slowly growing stronger as she gained confidence in her narrative. “The Prince put it between where humans live and where the rakh live, so that if one side gets angry it won’t kill the other. He said he had to put it there because humans and rakh don’t get along, and they always want to fight. But now it’s hard for them to start a war, because no one can get through the Wasting without the Prince’s help.”
“Why not?” Damien asked.
She said it with the simple candor of childhood. “They die.”
“How?” Hesseth asked her.
The young brow furrowed tightly. At last she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he knew. He just said that all things die in the Wasting, except things that normally live there. And ... he said he saw it from a distance once and it was really weird, all black like the Prince’s lands but it had white trees, only they had no leaves and he couldn’t see anything else alive there....” She shook her head sharply, frustrated. “I don’t think the Prince told him anything about how it works.”
“Of course not,” Damien muttered. “As far as he knew, the Protector might still turn against him. Why give a potential enemy more information than you have to?”
“It sounds pretty grim” Hesseth muttered.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It does at that.”
When True Night Falls Page 49
